The Mycroft Affair
by Aitherrs
Summary: Marie doesn't like socialising or parties. She doesn't like emotion or people who have too much of it. Does she meet her match in the charming Mycroft Holmes. Mycroft/OC
1. Chapter 1

"The Holmes family have invited to their party tomorrow night, isn't that wonderful Marie?" Mother announced, flouncing into the sitting room, sending the cold winter wind through me. "We may finally get to meet their sons as well. Isn't it just wonderful?" We sigh, for very different reasons. Hers in euphoria. Mine in anguish at yet another fancy dinner at the home of a 'family friend'. I peer over my notebook, finally looking my mother in the eye – not something I often do. The cold air seeps through my exposed legs, I shiver as she watches me intently.

"Mother, must I go this year?" I utter, twisting the emerald fountain pen in my hand, staring at her as she dropped into the crusty arm chair. "I never have any fun and it's not me they want to see anyway." I hate dressing up, especially when it's cold. I hate the cold. I hate the snow. I hate parties and I particularly despise socialising. What a stupid thing to do. Why would anybody want to sit down and talk about what they do for a living? How tedious.

"Marie, you _have _to come! Violet says you absolutely have to meet her sons." I slam my book shut, exasperation consuming my breath as I fling my legs over the edge of the window ledge. "Besides, you don't have a choice. I won't leave you home alone."

"Mother, I'm 27 years old!"

"You don't act like it. I often forget!" She stands triumphantly and saunters towards me. As I lean back, desperate to get away from her claws, she strokes my hair softly. I hate that. "It's tomorrow night. Find something nice to wear!" With a triumphant forehead kiss, she flounces off into the kitchen, shutting the door behind her. Great. Yet another stupid dinner party.

x.x.x.x

She grabs my hand, pulling me up the path of their house. The pink exterior does seem inviting (even if it is entirely too vibrant). I hate this dress. Why did I choose this dress? The windows have glazed over, the cold of winter colliding with the warmth of the indoors, it makes it a truly private party – nobody else can see us from outside. After three quite taps on the door, a vibrant elderly woman flung the door open and smiled pleasantly at my mother – she is surely the woman who painted the house, or rather, coerced her husband into painting it the too vibrant shade of pink. Her black dress with plain and elegant however, and her necklace gave her eyes a desiring quality.

"Anna! I'm so glad you could make it!" She pulls my mother into a swift, polite embrace and turns flamboyantly to me. Here we go… "And you must be Marie! It's a pleasure to finally meet you, I've heard an awful lot about you!" She's a little excitable, don't you think?

"It's wonderful to meet you Violet, thank you so much for inviting me." I smile politely, my eyes wandering to the rustic inner decoration…if you ignore the Christmas tree and bright lights.

"Anna, come, I must show you this book I have been reading!" That announcement marks my mother's cue to run off with another one of hers friends and my cue to find a chair and continue my useless scribbles in my notebook. I clutch my band and survey the lounge area; a large dark red sofa two men chatting in confidence, a quaint arm chair by the lit fire place…perfect. I claim it quickly, not drawing attention to myself. Driving through the sea of unknown and excited faces. Successful, except for the two gentlemen. Both now staring at me. Wonderful.

"Hello." I manage to breathe out, reaching for the notepad in my bag. I unfurl the ribbon and open to my last page. Uncapping the fountain pen, I watch as they begin murmuring. They glance up at me and then continue murmuring.

"More likely to still be living at home." With a prominent jaw line and crystallised eyes, the younger one glances over at me, affirming his statement with a strong nod. "Definitely."

"Excuse me, do you two mind?" I mutter at the two malicious men, both folded neatly into the arm chair. Up until my interruption both had been intently switching their gaze between each other and me. The elder of the two was a well pressed, neat man. A grey suit hugging his shoulders, cascading down his body, meet with well-polished black shoes. His hair, well, what was left of it, is dark and velvety. Clean shaven.

"Apologies. It's a game my brother and I like to play." The elder man explains. His voice is as dark as his hair, the tone as velvety as its appearance. I smile.

"I'm Marie, you must be Violet's sons."

"Indeed you are." He replies with a soft smirk, "I'm Mycroft, and this is my obtrusive brother, Sherlock." I glance at the younger brother, his eyes bored from conversation and frustration marked his brow. I assume he lost the 'game'. His long coat is folded across the sofa's edge and his crisp, white shirt hugged the slim man's body.

"Do you mind if I play?" I ask, Mycroft's eyebrows raise in surprise. The younger, Sherlock, leaps forward in glee, tilting his head and perching his long slim fingers intertwined at the tip of his nose. "Well, you, Mycroft…" I stammer, blush rushing to my cheeks. "Judging by your well pressed suit and neatly folded coat, the neatness of your laces and the glimmer of your teeth, I'd say you suffer with OCD or some other compulsive disorder. Mostly probably OCD I'd say. The suit is probably Armani or some such expensive brand, so you have a lot of money. The laptop on the table in front you, you keep a very close eye on it, so I'd say you work for the government or for the law and something _very _important is on that laptop. It begs the question how far up. I'd say you're a smoker but you smoke like a beginner and have trouble with your breathing. Another thing. You act like a sociopath, or someone without emotion, but your care for your brother suggests otherwise. You care about him, I'd even say you _worry _about him. I think you feel emotion, you just don't like to admit it." He slumps back in his chair. "And as for you," I begin again, "you have recently given up smoking but your brother is a bad influence. You use his cigarettes and lighter as you don't carry your own. Your roommate doesn't like the habit most probably. You crave respect from your older brother. You haven't folded your coat as neatly as your brother but you still fold it. Why? Well it's either because you like neatness which seems unlikely as you seem the type who hoards and keeps things of sentiment, so it's more likely to be because you do it to keep your brother from thinking _too _badly of you. Oh and you like to solve crimes but that's probably because I've read John's blog. How did you survive the fall? I assume he had something to do with it." I sit back, holding the book in my lap. "Did I get anything wrong?"

"Food is ready!" A shriek from the kitchen pierces the silence of the room. Mrs Holmes has impeccable timing. I lean back, subjecting to the end of the _only _interesting conversation I have had in about four years. Sherlock heaves himself up with a sigh and a courteous nod in my direction, billowing towards the kitchen. The click of his expensive shoe, the last sound in the room. I open my book and twist the pen in my hand, I didn't have much to say, to comment on. I bounce my leg flippantly, aware of Mycroft's pensive staring.

"You didn't by the way." I glance up through my scrunched brow, Mycroft looked earnestly perplexed at me. "You didn't get anything wrong. Particularly about the caring. I was impressed. Most people don't notice that I do care. I just find it best to act like I don't feel anything." He admits. I stop my leg, folding my book down the arm chair.

"Why?" I question, leaning forward into the conversation.

"I'm not sure. It's just easier. Particularly with a brother as empty as Sherlock." He soberly stares in the fire place. He relaxes his shoulders, stretching his thin neck, pushing himself back into the chair. The room had flooded into the kitchen, we were completely alone. The fire blazed, lighting the room in a red haze and the log cracked in the heat. "Are you a fan of Christmas?"

"Not really, never been the biggest fan of the whole gift giving and merriness thing. Not really my kind of fun." A brief silence hangs in the room, masked only by the crackling of the fireplace. "I'm sorry but I still don't understand, how is it easier?"

"It's just _easier." _He breathes.

"How?" I question again, sliding forward in my chair. As he leans away from me, relaxing into the easiness of the conversation. I tense up, the thirst for knowledge and power overcoming my manners. "How could it be easier to act like you don't care?"

"It just is. Are you hungry? I am, I'm going to get some food." With that he was gone. Into the kitchen.

x.x.x.x.x

I didn't see Mycroft for the rest of that evening, or Sherlock for that matter. They both just disappeared and I was left to the sweet bitter taste of victory over the elder Mr Holmes. I didn't speak to anyone until my mother came to 'collect' me.

"We must be going. It's getting late and I have to work in the morning." My mother said softly, glancing around the room. I follow her to the door, close behind as she slides to door in heels that neither fit nor look vaguely comfortable. "I had a _wonderful_ time Violet dear. We must meet up again so. You must pop around for tea some time." Violet smiles kindly and shakes my hand as my mother laughs her away out of the door. I saunter down the path, my mind wandering to that of the elder Mr Holmes.

"Marie!"

As I turn, I find Sherlock gazing down at me, his long, slender fingers wrapped around the leather binding of my book. He smiles stiffly as he holds it out to me.

"Mycroft asked me to come out and give this to you. He found it and asked that I return it." He coughs and splutters as he speaks. "It was…_interesting _making your acquaintance tonight. I'm sure Mycroft would agree with me."

I smile, upset by the absence of the elder Holmes. If he had found it, why didn't _he _return it? It would have made more sense. I shake his hand and thank him gratefully for taking the time to bring me my journal and walk to my mother on the dimly lit country road. She wraps her arm and my shoulder and smiles. Motherly awareness. I hate it.

I look back at the house, one final glance. The top left window. Mycroft was there. His left arm resting softly against the pane. Fog covering his face from the warmth of his breath.

I smile.


	2. Chapter 2

_**Merry Christmas Marie. –MH **_

MH? I don't even know an MH. Mother comes back through the kitchen with two cups of tea, neatly placed on one her pink coffee trays.

"Mother, do we have any relatives whose initials are MH?" I question lightly, taking the cup from her newly polished fingers. I'd bought her a new makeup and nail set for Christmas, knowing full well it would lessen the amount of talking I'd have to do on Christmas day. She shakes her head profusely, plump lips wrapped around the rim of her china cup. I pick up my phone and text back:

_**Who is this? – MO**_

I sit back and watch the dull fire roar in an agonising wait. The sound of clunky cups and soft slurping filling the damp silence that hangs in the room. My mother sits in her finest dress reading a novel, probably one of romance or some such fairy tale. My screen lights up.

_**Mycroft Holmes. It's a pleasure to hear from you. How's Christmas going? – MH**_

I smile at the unexpected text from the unexpected recipient. I imagine he got my number using the perks of his job – I really must find out how high up in government he actually is.

_**Stealing my personal details now? It's unbearable – it's barely lunchtime and I want to just run away from the abundance of boredom my mother has bundled me into. How's yours? – MO **_

My eyes wander from my phone to my mother whose eyes have wandered to the window. I wonder if she ever misses father. She doesn't act like she does. I don't. I never will either. I watch her intently, the curve of her lip falling as she gets lost further and further into her mind.

_**I can't believe it is only 12 o'clock. I feel like Christmas is going on forever. Would you like to join me for a walk? – MH **_

I smile at my phone, in a girlish way that sits very wrongly on my face. As my cheeks redden, I splutter and look up at mother – she is staring intently at me now.

"Do you mind if I go out for a walk with Mycroft Holmes? He's asked me to walk with him for a little while?" I ask, rather immaturely, but even I – the queen of no emotion – don't want to leave her alone at Christmas unless she doesn't mind it. She smiles knowingly – I hate that she knows. Why does she always know? When mothers give birth, do they get given some kind of special sixth sense?

"Of course not, perhaps go up and dress a little more warmly however. It may start to snow." She murmurs, as she glides towards the kitchen with two empty mugs and the same knowing smile.

* * *

><p>I meet him, by the church yard. Bickliegh is small, rather too small for socialites and rather too big for a recluse. The shops line the streets, each lamp post, glittering in the fog, lit up a new one. When I meet him by the church yard, he stands majestically as many would expect of OCD government official. His umbrella, hooked over his arm falls just below the knee; close to his coat which falls just above it. The coat is furled up against the cold, harsh country air and his eyes are contently staring at his phone. When he sees me, the contented look grows and a small quiver in his lips greets me.<p>

"Hello Marie." He greets, with a soft, unexpected hand shake. We sit on the bench, marked '_for Alan and Joan, sisters who died in 2009'_. The silence that greets us is neither comfortable nor uncomfortable. Just like the air is new stale nor vibrant. There are very few other people in this world, I have noticed, who can sit in silence and just be. Be calm. Be thoughtful. Be anything they want.

Then he breaks the silence.

"I'm sorry I didn't come out to give you your book back, it was cowardly, I admit." I'd like to say he was solemn, to find a hint of compassion in his voice. But there was none. His tone was steady and resolved – much like the man it attached itself to. "But I couldn't bear to be understood by another human being – it's a frightful thought."

"I'd ask a question but I think that is what caused the difficulty last time." He scoffs softly at the wind, forcing his eyes forward. I look ahead, mirroring his awkward action. I lick my lip, my tongue warming them from blue to rose. My breath steady in the cold air.

"I'll make you a deal," he finally replies, "you may ask the question but I do not have to answer it, if I do not wish to. Does that seem fair?" It was fair – which is why he suggested it. He does not seem to be the type of man who would make a suggestion that was implausible; nothing was ever suggested that would hurt his pride and honour.

"Why did you text me?" I pause, my words biting the air, but only for a moment. "I would never have seen you again if you hadn't made the effort to see me. But why? You say you don't want to be understood but surely spending more time with me will only increase the likelihood of that.." I drift off, fathoming his reasons. Surely he has a motive – I just can't figure it out. His head turns sharply towards me and I feel his look. Its intent and its glint of happiness.

"Perhaps it's time I grew close to another human being, Marie." The warmth in my cheeks is no longer caused by the weather and the smile breaching my lips is no longer caused by forced kindness.

"Perhaps," I begin, finally returning his gaze. "Wouldn't it be simpler just to get a goldfish?" I question sarcastically – I hear people grow attached to pets – I've never much seen the appeal myself.

"Aren't they one and the same?" He retorts, quirking his lips softly as he holds my stare. I laugh softly, embarrassed by my blushing, giggle and emotion. I haven't laughed in years and my stomach aches as it stretches into action after so long. I throw him one last soft huff of laugh and stand up.

"I do believe we said we were walking. All we are doing right now," I grab his hands, his grip tightens around mine as we heave his body from the moulding of the bench. "Is sitting on our bums talking emotionally." He smiles and his body stretches into its long, thin, natural loom and he looks down at me. I take his arm as he holds it out politely and we head towards the woods.

* * *

><p>I couldn't help but smile as I remembered his admonition for friendship and closeness. Of course, mother had known as soon as I put my key in the door that I had feelings for the guy; we'd barely been gone and hour. But, of course, being a person who rarely mingles with the opposite sex, if I spend two minutes with a man, she assumes we are engaged.<p>

Her frantic cooking was reflected in her hair and the glint in her eye and she bounded the hall to greet me. Her hair is really quite scary – she has the whole medusa look going on right now. I fear that if I look directly at it I will turn to stone.

"How was it?" She sounded like I'd been to Thailand or on some whirlwind adventure…in fact, what I'd experience was _better _than that.

I shrug and grab my note book from the table and plop myself onto the sofa – she has gone back to the kitchen and the cooker fizzes, pops and crackles as I remember his admonition. Marie and Mycroft.

So I pulled open my notebook and wrote, the only way I knew how to express myself. A way my mother wises I would share with other people. A way I hope Mycroft never gets to see.


	3. Chapter 3

**I'm so, so, so sorry for how late this next chapter is! I have had so much on with my final year of sixth form and medication problems and the illness of a friend and all of other stuff that just weighed me down. I promise to try and been more constant with the next few chapters of this story. Thanks for the support so far! - A.**

* * *

><p>If my first encounters with Mycroft Holmes had taught me anything, it was that I should, undoubtedly, not get involved in the affairs of the Holmes brothers.<p>

Mycroft had stopped by a week ago to say goodbye before heading back to London. Christmas can only last so long and for a man, such as Mycroft Holmes, he was indispensable at work. Not that I even know what he does but I do like to guess. He had kissed my cheek and told me to text him if I was ever popping up to London; an unlikely event. I returned the favour, asking him to send me text if he was ever back here; an event more unlikely than the last. His apparel was no different than when I had seen him the previous day, however, there appeared to be something different about him. He was tired, a feat I wasn't sure the man was capable of, and his eyes groaned and fell into his maturing skin as the cold air bounced around his head attempting to wake him up. His eyes were different, he had been reserved and probably even cold with me when we had met, but it appeared he could no longer be bothered to keep up a cold exterior after our encounters. It wasn't a particularly long conversation.

I've sat on this window sill ever since, wondering what it is that I should do. I had the money, I could go to London and stay in a hotel for a few days and test the waters with Mycroft, be his goldfish.

I can't believe that I've allowed myself to consider this. How could I go to London and just expect everything to be okay? When does that ever happen? The brothers are certainly dangerous if the gunshot residue on the sleeve of Sherlock's crisp suit was anything to go by. Firearms and government positions very rarely suggest stable and loving characters. I never seek out excitement. I'm 24 and I still live in the same house I grew up with and with the same mother I unfortunately have to bear as my own. What would I even do in London? I've never been and I've never considered going before now. Not once have I ever wanted to leave the confines of the life I have here.

Perhaps that's the reason that I should go. Perhaps getting involved in the lives of the Holmes brothers is what I need to escape my sorry existence.

"Mum?" I call from the ledge, dropping my book to the sofa underneath me. She yells a loud yes from the kitchen, I wait a few seconds, and she turns Bruce Springsteen off. Thank God. "I'm thinking of going up to London for a few days, maybe a week. Would that be okay?" Judging by the silence and the loud plop of the dish cloth into the sink, I think she's okay with it. Probably more than okay, she's probably out there dancing right now. Dancing like Bruce ruddy Springsteen.

"Yes of course love. You're 27, you don't have to ask."

"I know, I thought I'd tell you before I disappear." We fall into a familiar, comfortable, family silence as she clearly pondered how she was going to say the next part. Let me guess, she'll go with: 'does this have anything to do with Mycroft?'

"Does this have anything to do with Mycroft?" There it is. Yes mum, it has everything to do with Mycroft. The man is so similar to me and I can't stop myself from wondering what would happen if I did go to London, even for a little while. Just to get a taste of what life outside of this house would be like. To see what it feels like to have a crush on someone, to kiss someone.

"No. I just fancy a holiday mum." She sighs, she knows I'm lying. We both know I'm lying but neither of us are going to say it. Why would we? We're British after all. We gossip, of course we do, but not about ourselves. Never about ourselves. It's always about the colour and size of the neighbour's new fence or about the strange looking girl who always walks past our house.

London is nothing like London should be. It's loud but not as loud as I remember. I don't almost get run over by every taxi to pass me, I am not mugged, shouted at or attacked on arrival and I don't feel the need to burst into tears at the closeness of everybody on the tube. In fact, there are only two other people on this tube. A gentlemen reading the metro, engrossed in the media and technology section of the paper judging by the computer geek t-shirt and loose fitting jeans. His silver watch, laced in money and splendour suggests that he works somewhere powerful and earns a lot of money or, perhaps, a family member works somewhere powerful and earns a lot of money. His hair is a perfect match to his clothing, nerdy and trimmed neatly to rest on the hem of his t-shirt. Other than his watch, he's the perfect example of a nerdy computer geek. He was sat three seats down, opposite myself, with one leg elegantly placed on top of the other.

I wonder if I should text Mycroft yet.

No, perhaps I should wait. Yes, waiting seems to be the best idea here.

I get off the tube at Covent Garden and saunter up the darkening streets towards the nearest hotel. It is neither big nor grand nor posh nor expensive. It is cheap, small and perfect for an anti-social, little bug such as myself.

My room is neither big nor small. It is just big enough to feel at home but not so big that I feel like a mouse trapped in a castle. It contains a double bed with white, cheap sheets and an uncomfortable scratchy duvet resting on top of it (I assume they use it to add colour to a room which is otherwise entirely white). It feels a little like a hospital room but not enough to make one uncomfortable.

As night dwells and lingers over the last of the night sky, I wonder if I should text Mycroft now. Perhaps. I pace the room, phone in hand, debating over a topic I never thought I would debate over. Do I or do I not text the guy?

I do.

**_Mycroft, I'm in London. _**

As I settle back against the sheets, scathingly scratching my back every few minutes because of the only colourful thing in the drab room. Removing it becomes the next big topic in my head alongside the concept of seeing Mycroft. If I remove it, I may be too cold without it. I may itch all of the flesh off my body if I don't. Cold or skinless. Such a dilemma.

As my brain resolves the problem and wills my body to remove it, my phone attacks the white coffee table with a startled buzz.

**_I know, I'm surprised to say the least. Never thought you'd actually come to London. – MH. _**

Oh. Perhaps it was a bad idea to come up here after all, perhaps he doesn't want to see my after all. He didn't think I'd actually come to London? Maybe he was banking on it. Maybe his plan was to keep it as some kind of hidden countryside romance. His bit on the side, maybe.

Damn it. I text back.

**_Yes, I thought I could use some time away from mother. Don't feel like you have to come and see me. I know that I don't mean much and I know you're a busy man. Just let me know if you want to – and you don't have to – have a coffee or something sometime._**

Was that too clingy? Too casual? Oh god, how would I know? I don't know the first thing about talking to a guy I am actually attracted to.

Perhaps I just texted him at a bad time…no, it can't be that. His text was long, not short. He isn't busy. He has time to text. No. I'm sure he just doesn't want to see me. He 'never thought I'd actually come to London'. It doesn't sound good. Not at all. Mycroft didn't seem the type to gain permanent, personal relationships regularly and I'm nothing special.

Nothing special at all.

I pace my room again. I'm unsure if I pace because I'm awaiting a response or because I'm wondering if I should just pack up and leave now. I've certainly considered both.

If I spend my time waiting for a response, that may or may not come, I would waste all of time in London dreaming and wishing for something that will probably not happen. Creating scenarios and concepts in my head that will never happen. Turning Mycroft Holmes into a knight in shining armour; something he most certainly is not. I would end up trying to track him down and see him but never succeed. I would get stuck in some kind of obsessive mind set over a guy I've just met because he never text me back.

Well, I certainly don't want that.

However, if I pack up and leave now, I may never see him again. Or maybe, he will come looking for me and I'll have left and then he'll never try to contact me again. Mother will know something is wrong then. Oh god, I don't want that either. I don't think I could deal with her endless questions about what happened in London. Asking me why I'm back so soon or why I never look as happy as I did before.

I realise now that I'm stuck here.

I'm really over thinking this now. I really need to calm down now. And, as I allow my mind to relax, even just a little bit, as I allow myself to stop pacing and sit on the scratchy, colourful blanket, my phone buzzes. Twice.

**_Don't over think the message I sent you before. I know you will. – MH. _**What? What does that mean?

**_Open your hotel door. – MH. _**

I do as instructed, allowing the smallest amount of hope to course through my confused veins. I'm not disappointed. Before me stands MH. Mycroft Holmes. His hair wispier than before, his eyes scratchier and more sallow than before. His suit more neatly pressed than before and his shoes shining brighter than before. His clothing is impeccable, the man himself is sallow and tired. I wish, briefly, that he would look after himself as much as he looks after his clothing.

But that idea is a mere fancy to me. It's Mycroft Holmes. He doesn't take care of himself, he takes care of everything else first. Everybody else's business and problems. The world needs him more than he needs himself in a healthy condition.

Shame really.

"Hello, Marie." He smiles with the edge of his lips, only the thin edges of his lips, as he looks at me intently. "May I come in?"

Yes.


	4. Chapter 4

I let him in, swiftly, not drawing attention to myself or him in this hospital hotel. Everything is white. The walls, the carpet, the lobby, the ceiling, the bedrooms, the bathrooms, the bloody waiter's jacket is white and is whiter than the dirty white carpet.

"You came to London." He remarks, placing the tip of his umbrella precisely in the corner between the white desk and the white wall.

"Yes, I did."

"It's very white in here." Yes it is.

"I – well, yes, I suppose it is. I didn't expect you to come looking for me." He doesn't know where to stand or whether to sit or where to sit should he choose sitting as the correct action so he fumbles nervously in the small, open space between the bed and the bathroom. He allows his sunken, tired eyes to glance around the small room disapprovingly.

"You should be staying somewhere nice than this." His remarks are driving me crazy, I come all the way to London and he wishes to discuss the colours of my walls and the quality of my room. I'm aware that neither are particularly used to the concept of emotion which immediately makes this difficult. Processing these new emotions is difficult for me, it's difficult to know that I'm thinking about Mycroft more than anything or anyone else (even though I've only known him a few weeks and only held a conversation for a mere few hours), it's difficult knowing that I did, in fact, come all the way to see him. It's difficult to know that I did read into his text and I hate that what he thinks of me has suddenly become incredibly important in my mind. If he is going through even one of these new experiences, I doubt he knows what to do with himself.

I wonder if he thinks about me at all. Probably not, actually. There are more important things for him to think about.

"I can't afford anywhere nicer than this. Not all of us hold 'minor positions in the British government'." He quirks his lips into an appreciative and consoling smirk. "Mycroft, why did you come looking for me?"

"Why did you come to London?"

"Why must we speak in pointless questions?"

"Why must you affect me in this manner?"

"Why-" What? Why must _I _affect _him _in this manner? Why must he affect me? I was perfectly happy in the middle of nowhere, sipping tea unpleasantly with an overly pleasant mother. I was happy with what I had but then I go to one Christmas party and I socialise _one _time and here I am, in London, waiting on the man to tell me what is going on here. He takes a step forward but it's small in size.

Probably large in Mycroft's mind.

"Why can I not stop thinking about the conversation we had on our walk? Why, when I heard you were in London, did I allow myself to jump in a car to come and find you? I should have worked, there is plenty I should be doing. Yet, here I am."

"Don't let me stop you doing something important, Mycroft. Go back to work." Perhaps there was something I could have said that was infinitely nicer than what sounded like a jab at his work ethic. Perhaps I could be nicer. Perhaps.

"Why are you ignoring the first part of my allegation?" He takes another, small and large, step forward.

"Why call it an allegation?" There are too many why's in this conversation and not enough facts. I need to know what is going on here. I need to know why he came all the way to my hotel to tell me that he has thought of our walk. He could have text me that. He is accusing me of stopping his work but I was neither present at the time nor texting him so I cannot be held responsible for his lack of focus…can I?

"I don't know what else to call it! This is difficult – I – I'm – what would you – I don't know what I should say." Neither do I. We hit an impasse. I don't know what I should say. Do I like him? Yes. Do I know why or what happened that made me like him? No. Do I want to like him? Not really. Do I want him to kiss me right here, right now? I don't know, probably.

"Then there is nothing worth saying. I, too, don't know what to say. I feel like I should say something but I don't know what to say or how to say it. I have never had to deal with such emotions before." He allows one thick, violent, gulp to slide down his throat as he watches me.

"What sort of emotions?"

"I don't know!" I realise now, that my hand is still firmly holding the door handle to my room as if ready to make a quick getaway. As if waiting for him to run. The warmth of the metal tells me how long we've been stood here staring at each other. The awkward silence brought on by my awkward response lingers in the air, stale and flat. How I wish I knew what to say.

But I don't.

"Do you think about me?" He questions, finally. It was more of a whisper, as question that slipped from his lips and fell into the air. His eyes falling anywhere but me. I have almost forgotten their colour now.

"Of course."

"Often?" He questions again.

"Often." They're blue but hard and coarse like freshly found gemstones pulled from a Cliffside. Like a combination of an outer layer of an agate gemstone which lingers in the mind and an apatite stone which pierces one's soul with deafening clarity. He looks at me softly. Finally.

We haven't seen each other in a couple of weeks and I wish it had been longer because the sensation of finally looking into those clear eyes causes my metal heart to stir and creak. If I had waited longer, would the feeling be more intense? Less intense? Would I have forgotten about him? Oh, I don't know!

An awkward silence seeps in through the window, attacking us from the cold, tainted London air. Disgusting.

"Would you like to go for dinner sometime? Maybe I could cook for you. If I find some time and you aren't busy, of course. Sometime soon, if you'd like. Only if you'd like. I – I don't want to pressure you into seeing me if you don't want." Dinner, with Mycroft, something he cooked. Something so intimate as to share one's abilities and interests? Could I? I should, shouldn't I? He takes another step forward, a little braver this time, I watch as his right foot leaps forward to meet his left.

"Dinner sounds…lovely." And then he walks over to me, taking six steps more than before, a little more passion and confidence in each swift stride. But the confidence exhumed in those brief seconds, during the reassurance of my words, of my choice in adjective, vanished as he finally allowed himself to look into my eyes. He dithers on his next action, his eyes trailing from my willing eyes, to my broken, innocent lips and then to the wall; clearly, he decided the best course of action to take was no action at all. Pity, really. "When do you think you will next be available?" I venture a question that could be answered through text with much more simplicity but I fear that we could stand here, in this frozen state of uncertainty for quite some time if no one speaks or acts.

"I'm unsure, Sherlock and his goldfish," he smiles softly, almost unnoticeably, at the memory of our conversation back home no doubt, "they keep me plenty busy and the Prime Minister is off in Switzerland with one of his mistresses so for all intents and purposes, I'm running the country. It's all a little _hectic._" Well, I've decided now; Mycroft is the sort of man who can make you feel entirely inadequate in life simply by being himself. He can make you seem like the laziest couch potato to have ever lazed about simply by summing up his life in two sentences. However, he misjudges the reaction I bare to his question and continues, "However, I promise to make time for you, Marie."

Finally, he acts. He leans down and kisses, gently, my reddened cheek. His soft, cold lips colliding with the heat he had caused as he ran out of words to comfort me with. I feel my eyes close. Such utter bliss. I don't like a man having such control over my own body. But the feeling isn't permanent, far from it, in fact, I long for the return of his lips as my cheek becomes, once again, exposed to harsh and, undoubtedly, white air hanging in this room.

"Goodbye, Marie," he whispers.


End file.
